Celtic Blood

by James John Loftus

  “For how long I wonder will it shine?” Morgund asked, to breach the silent monotony of their journey.

  “I don’t know,” Seward replied.

  Soon bleak quilty layers smothered the sky’s blue and wetness glided down. The horse’s hooves made splashing plods on the sodden earth. Morgund wished to be in front of a roaring fire. The atmosphere, cold. Soon mighty blows came down upon them in the form of bitter hail.

  “What a day,” Morgund complained. “It would test the patience of a Saint.”

  “Welcome to Scotland, Morgund.”

  “Just as well I don’t believe in omens,” Morgund said.

  “Perhaps you should,” Seward replied with an arch of an eyebrow.

  From the breaking cloud cover narrow corridors of light, bridging the divide between heaven and earth. Morgund and Seward focused their attention upon the glorious spectacle. But as they rode on, the divine display of light and colour fled from mortal sight.

  “This day is as moody as a woman suffering her monthly predicament,” Morgund cursed.

  “It does not pay to mock the skies, Morgund. The issue is not their wrath, but our stupidity in being out in it, for we are not made to dwell in it, as well we know.”

  In a sheltered clearing they set up camp. The pair claimed warm, dry lodging, for within the trees the rain had scant opportunity to reach the forest floor. They slept poorly, disturbed by insects and the noises of the woods. The next day as bleak as that before. The day following however brought fine weather. Food was scant in their possession so they went searching for it. Fair pleasant place this was, furnished, with soft ferns and wild grasses. With the odd gnarled tree. Reminding Seward of a landlord, watching over his tenants. The smaller growing trees, each half-acre, a multitude, thereof. A wide view containing many of them yet only one large tree, seemingly a guardian to his smaller brethren, a curiosity of nature, pleasing to the human eye. They came to a stream, with flowering vines hugging the higher bank. Downstream, bulrushes. The woodland bore a multitude of hues from the high vaulted canopy to the saplings and shrubbery. Yet, what of game? No doubt this was its habitat, but they could see no beasts and their bellies scolded them, at the scarcity. Seward followed a narrow path.

  Something caught Morgund’s attention. A bird made its way across the sky in a relaxed rhythm. It swept away in an arc. The wind unleashed a steady stream of debris, this, the reward for Morgund’s steady gaze. Morgund had a nudge from Seward, “Come on.”

  Morgund followed his friend on the game trail. The close trees and branches he pushed aside took him thither. Occasionally Seward paused and Morgund would follow suit, listening and alert for any signs of game. The path led to a quiet glade and ahead they could see a hill of ancient forest. Surely the towering trees in this section of the wood were the progenitors of the rest. They stood tall and proud, like ranks of disciplined soldiers.

  They continued. Decaying leaf matter and crackling twigs betrayed them as they walked. Amongst the leaf litter and scattered logs mushrooms grew. They collected handfuls and shortly after, found a partly dismembered deer. The deer was newly killed and some of its meat untouched. Dogs, close by, began growling. Morgund sent an arrow to disperse them. Once he did this, the meat was theirs, and they cut it into long strips.

  “Mushrooms will be good to eat tonight with this,” Morgund said.

  “Aye. Maybe on the way back we might find some more. Perhaps even a live stag,” Seward replied.

  “That is my hope Seward.”

  But they did not see any live game. Seated, they looked out at the terrain. This was an odd place, picturesque yet unforgiving. Seams of granite encrusted the hills, and the peaks were adorned with great boulders, like alters to long forgotten gods.

  “Here, I sit beneath this tree, with a fire going and water boiling. Soon to quench my thirst with a mint tea.”

  “I didn’t have you marked for a poet Morgund.”

  “Nor did I, myself,” Morgund replied.

  Seward prompted. “Tell me more.”

  “When I think of more I will. Today has magic to it. Most days aren’t like this. I wish this day could go on forever.”

  “What about Mirium?”

  “If she were here. Perfection.”

  “It is good to feel full again,” Seward declared.

  Seward nodded with smile. “Aye, indeed.”

  Once night fell, their eyes fastened onto the roasting fire. A short period of conversation was followed by an exhausted sleep. Morning came, and amply provisioned they continued. The weather remained fine. Scotland’s climate did not consist of many clear days, thus, those few that occurred were savoured. People living in cold climes do lust for them; the rays shining down made for easy travel.

  Riding along, wheat fields waving their fluffy hands at them. Later they came to a patchwork of fallow fields and the remains of hovels put to the torch. This was the handiwork of the English raiders. Some of the crop survived but this was poor land.

  Then the cool green shade of woods enclosed them briefly before dense forest cast them in deep shadow. At last, an end, the open sky, which they had not seen for long. A thin white apron hung drawn across by an unseen brushstroke in the heavens and at one end leaving a distortion on the blue a transparent smudge. Soon dark trees surrounded them again. This an offshoot of the main forest. They were looking forward to leaving it and regaining the pleasure of the sun. A little spring sprang to their sight. They took their horses down to drink. Sitting themselves down. Sunlight streamed down past outstretched branches, like silver fountains cascading. The undergrowth made a comfortable bed.

  They built a fire and a concocted brew of roots. A slow-paced interlude, where they drank often, and enjoyed warm concoctions. Then they began organising their departure. Thereafter, riding on. Ever more the woods became more peculiar, and eerily silent. Morgund could not help recalling it was in a similar forest, a place fit for kings, that he had been captured by king John’s henchman. Notwithstanding, though, they were far from that forest. He was sure, like that forest to the south this would also be the haunt of noblemen. Seward thought there was danger. The watchful silent forest had them on guard

  “Morgund, someone with red hair comes this way,” Seward said.

  “A red haired man,” Morgund observed, spotting the intruder from a distance.

  “With an affinity.”

  There sounded the galloping of horses, the baying of hounds and the blast of the hunting horn.

  “Yes Morgund someone this way, comes.”

  “Let us into the forest and tether the horses, hide them well,” Morgund said.

  It was done. With the horses far in and tightly tethered, they blackened their faces and put green sprigs amongst their clothing. They crept to where they could see.

  Hooves pounded the forest floor. A wild boar, the evading dogs, scampered up the track. Horses ever closer. And then there he was. Alexander. Still slim, still wearing that pointed red beard. Still, the fox, as king John had so aptly named him. The irony that “the fox” should be the hunter was not lost upon Morgund.

  Alexander rubbed his eyes. The hunt had been going … too long. The night before he had over indulged in wine and revelry. He looked around him. Mud. There was always mud. Sticky mud on his new boots. The treacherous ground strewn with timber tested the courage and ability of the riders. Alexander enjoyed these forays, for he found the galloping through the forest as equally entertaining as the chasing of the deer or boar. Many were the days he spent like this; drenched with mud and rain, exhilarated, laughing, in flight between the logs and thorns, turning and chasing his prey and spearing it.

  Admired, for just who he was, the king. Breathing the aromatic, resinous scent of pine, and feeling relaxed. His cousin, Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar was his friend and sworn man, and these were his forests. Cospatrick had a very tenuous claim to the throne, as did many, yet too tenuous to have any real validity. His most serious rival, Morgund MacAedh, not heard of fo
r many years, was widely thought dead. If Alexander died, childless, the succession could go to his impulsive cousin somewhere away in the timbers. His wife, king John’s daughter, Joan, had born no child, nor ever fallen pregnant. If God willed it a son would rule after him, if not, others would. The churned ground caught his eye. Mud, always mud. On days like this it froze and never dried out Sticky brown glue, where did it come from this bog, everywhere. He was thoroughly sick of it. A fire sounded good.

  Cospatrick was a boon companion, yet he was often headstrong. Whether by the man’s nature or because of his close ties with Alexander, Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar, behaved recklessly, often daring those amongst his retinue to the same feats of bravado or hot-headedness. Any battle Cospatrick fought would be his last for he had more courage than sense. Alexander thought Cospatrick reckoned the providence that made Alexander king would rub of on himself, and protect him both in terms of body and diplomacy. Alexander, however, did as he felt fit. Had Cospatrick encouraged the others of his retinue to acts of foolishness that led to a broken neck, Alexander would have laughed heartedly at them. But for now Alexander managed to evade his entourage, to seek some solace in the woods to clear his head.

  Nonetheless, Alexander’s bodyguard would be replaced. The man had become distracted by the hunt and carried on without him. As much as Alexander appreciated the solitude he saw the danger. Alexander had eluded him very easily. Presently, the fact was of negligible consequence. However, one day it could prove deadly. A king who lost his companions could be killed. Many of Scotland’s kings had met violent deaths, and Alexander was not about to join them. As if in answer to his thoughts there was a rustle in the undergrowth and then Morgund stood before him.

  After a long moment of shock Alexander recovered enough to say, “The MacAedh risen from the grave!”

  “The fox, it seems, has been caught,” Morgund replied.

  Alexander looked around him nervously. “But by whom am I caught? It is just yourself I see, only.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, fox, I have only a companion, but a companion armed with a bow with an arrow pointed at thine breast.”

  Alexander could see another man to one side of Morgund, no doubt the bowman.

  “And if you shoot me my cousin Cospatrick will be king. He would love nothing better. It helps thee not.”

  “I would kill you for your treachery, for what you did to my father.”

  Alexander played for time, he knew his bodyguard would soon notice his absence and return for him.

  “I did what I had to do,” he stammered, trying to find his confidence. This was laboured under the burden of his predicament. “You’re a highland miscreant who won’t come to heel.”

  Alexander moved his horse away slightly. Just then he heard men calling his name. The undergrowth moved, Alexander ducked down, expecting an arrow as he furiously rode away. Alexander thought he heard, “We will meet again, Fox.”

  But it was faint and could have been his imagination. Only four men rode to meet with him. Alexander sent one to alert the others and sent the other two after Morgund. The remaining bodyguard abiding by his side. Neither of the men sent forth into the undergrowth wished to be skewered and moved just out of Alexander’s sight and sat down, waiting. Alexander was safe out of target range. Meanwhile, Morgund and Seward had regained their horses and escaped, a brisk gallop and some hastily concealed tracks forestalling any pursuit. Alexander sent out search parties to hunt down them down which met with no success.

  Morgund silently brooded on how close he’d been to killing Alexander and Seward let him have his thoughts. Morgund and Seward broke free of the forest sometime in the afternoon. They rode with focus and determination. Suddenly, all energy was spent, it was as if the woods, the birds and beasts therein and time itself had been stilled. Now they were exhausted from spurring their horses fast, and the horses themselves shone with a glistening of sweat. The forest had provided some cover from pursuers. Now, in open country, but far from any pursuit they allowed the horses and themselves to rest.

  Coming to the midlands, it was late afternoon and still warm. They gazed at the sun. The fiery beacon dying in motion shooting reddish pink across the sky, then, with one last red-yellow peak, it was gone and night descended.

  THE MORNING WAS one of gold; the early sun warm at the horizon’s edge and the rolling fields below were populated by stalks of ripening wheat bowing under the burden of heavy full heads.

  Morgund said with wonder. “If it were somewhat warmer, I’d say it could pass for Italy here. Where we are? What do you think, have we escaped Scotland to be there? I remember the forever rain of Scotland. Are we in another land, the land of sun?”

  “In pockets, where wheat fills the land, aye, it seems so. In bog lands and broken dwellings where English raiders have put abodes to the torch, I’d say no. Hereabouts it could be Italy. If there is such a state,” Seward said “They say Italy, looks not like Scotland. There are no soft dreary rains and it isn’a always a’blowin, like here.”

  Finally Morgund spoke on the matter preoccupying his mind. “I should of slain Alexander when I had the chance, Seward.”

  “I agree,” Seward replied.

  “Is that all you can say Seward?” Morgund said.

  “At least my behind is not rain sodden today, Morgund.”

  “Please tell me what I could of done. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly,” Morgund said.

  “I’m sure if you make battle against him, you will meet him again. Seek next time to kill him then, surely he will seek to do you to death, Morgund to. And you will both be content.”

  Morgund didn’t look interested, he was looking for a way to get under Seward’s skin, a remedy for his frustration and what he saw as his failure to act meaningfully upon meeting Alexander.

  Morgund said. “Good biting winds that’s what Scotland is noted for. The Latin’s know that, I bet, as we know sunny or wet, we wouldn’t swap our Scotland as it is a better home for us, than anywhere.” He hadn’t finished yet although Seward wished he were, because he didn’t want to hear such nonsense. The unspoken hurt with Alexander was not a subject Morgund or Seward wanted to discuss, this but, a distraction, an irritating one Seward thought. “Although more of like sun would be to my liking” Morgund finally concluded.

  Seward cast a hard gaze at Morgund. “I enjoy brightness as do all. But judge this? Never think the sun more pleasant in Italy, the sun would burn our like to cinders. We are not made for it. This our home and there is nowhere better than that surely.” Then Seward said, contrarily, “I love Scotland to but wouldn’t it be grand to see scenes unlike any we know.”

  Morgund put words to a quickening heart. “This land, the land of my forefathers that begat me is the only place for me. You weren’t born in Scotland. It is understandable.”

  Seward remembered the expression Morgund had displayed a couple of days ago when it rained. He wondered what his opinion would be if it was pelting rain. Seward knew it would be different.

  Morgund was at it again. “This land a better one than any.”

  “Aye Morgund, if you say so.” Seward had enough of distant lands and the comparisions with hereabouts. Seward was thinking of what they might find when returning to the land they had called their own, the MacAedh, inheritance.

  Horses advancing at a rapid clip, looking at the expression on Seward face, Morgund said, “You’re many miles from here aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Seward cast his mind to Alexander and the change in him since they had last met him. Alexander was in his mid twenties now, and taller. Seward continued on having his flighty thoughts for he didn’t want the peril he was heading into to make him anxious. He was thinking of how neatly trimmed Alexander’s beard had been. Alexander looked quite gallant, like a king. Morgund was replaying the meeting with Alexander. Morgund imagined himself as king, and determined he would be equally, if not more regal.

  “Mine are?” Morgund said, looking like a
wistful poet.

  “Are what?” Seward asked, finally leaving his private world.

  “Good thoughts. Concentrating on these fields of plenty.”

  Wheat fields stood ready for the knife. This was a part of the land that produced most of its wealth, however only the elite benefited by the richness of the soil. Peasants lived simply by running cattle and sheep, or both, on small places. Game and other natural foods supplementing their diet. When conditions were favourable life was good but in less promising years they barely subsisted, or worse, starved.

  Family relationships were the interwoven strands that held these people above despair. In adversity, they made haste to assist each other. It was often a hard life but they were not alone. Gaining the harvest and planting was the tenants’ due, which they did without complaint as they raised in arms for his Lordship in times of war. Morgund couldn’t help but think of how many men the lowlands could provide - many more than his highlands. Morgund brought up in conversation with Seward on the vast resources Alexander could call upon, so much more than their own. Seward did not seem interested. Morgund let the matter drop.

  With the full import of their intended endeavour brought home to them, they practised their sword craft long and hard that same day. The realistic bruising encounter they welcomed as a distraction. Afterwards, whilst nursing injuries, they talked tactics, going through various useful methods slowly and carefully. They analysed themselves and confidence began to burn. If nothing else, as individuals they were a match for all but the very few who, like themselves, were extremely gifted in the art of swordsmanship

  The sun had dipped low on the horizon when Morgund and Seward chanced upon a man, being dragged behind a party of six men by a rope tied around his neck. When the captive collapsed, as happened often, he would be kicked and harassed until he clambered to his feet again to continue his humiliating pilgrimage. As the day grew darker the men stopped, and tied their prisoner tightly to a tree. Morgund and Seward observed the men preparing a meal from a distance. The captors did not share it with their charge despite his protests.